


All Yours

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Consentacles, Gay Monsters, M/M, The Joy of Eldritch Sex, but it's definitely sex, nobody has clearly defined genitalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things get hot and heavy -- or better yet, cold and non-Euclidean -- in a hayloft in Pottsfield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Yours

They weren’t made for each other, but really only because they weren’t made -- or at least didn’t know each other when they were making themselves. That all came later.

They are not connected, not framed as opposites in the cosmic plan of some massive external force. They are alone, solitary, each the supreme ruler of a dominion as vast and terrible as the other.

Any bonds they find themselves tangled in have been forged by their own will, not by the strange notions of soul-unity that persist in humans or the arid quantum concepts that please smaller entities. They are allied and they unite because they like each other, and it’s as simple as that.

It’s a surpassingly romantic notion, he thinks, and no less delicious than the thrilling coincidence of their physical compatibility. It’s charming to see traits in a desired other that indicate that the other may desire traits found in someone like oneself.

And they are sublimely complementary. Every raw shard of burning cold can be plunged and melted in hot, rot-dark soil. Every sigh of sweet satiation can be strangled into a groan of wracking hunger. Every song can be a temptation, every temptation can be a dirge, and every dirge can be a hymn.

(Every hole can be filled, and every filling thing can find a hole, and neither is what it was, when they’re locked together. It’s a crass way of imagining it, and oh, how he does imagine it, frequently and vividly. It’s obscene. It’s sexy. And most importantly, it’s true.)

It’s positively cannibalistic, to be really candid. Their compatibility is a compatibility of difference, and there’s room to argue -- and it has been argued, at length, beautifully -- that there’s an element of mutually assured destruction, as winter swallows summer and summer burns inside winter.

Deep inside.

He loves this. It’s a strange thing for them to do, perhaps, if one gets lost in a gnarl of metaphor. Enoch can swap bodies as he pleases, and the jury is very much out on whether the Beast really has nerve endings. For them to be using physical forms this way could be considered kinky.

But their physical forms are them, and they like each other. Although he’s only seen it once, Enoch likes the Beast’s body, his nightmarish twisted scream of a figure, svelte and riddled with agony. He likes the Beast’s antlers, so proud and virile, and his beautiful eyes.

And he knows the Beast likes his bodies right back. And if the way he’s moving is any indication, the Beast especially likes the maypole.

(Enoch would put quite a little money on the Beast having nerve endings. Just neatly tucked away inside, where disuse has made them profoundly sensitive.)

He’s really too gorgeous like this, pushed into a corner of the hayloft, Enoch’s ribbons wrapped around his wrists and gripped in his freezing fingers. It’s not at all clear who is keeping whom right where he wants him.

His proud Beast is on his back, cushioned by itchy, sweet-smelling hay, a perfect patch of sublime and appalling darkness in the dusky murk of the shuttered barn.

He squirms, dark hard cold twisting in Enoch’s grasp. “Now.”

“Ready, turtle dove?” Enoch asks. He likes getting to talk and ask questions he knows the answer to. It’s as reassuring as it is amusing. After all, when they miscommunicate, they really miscommunicate.

And in any event his sweetheart becomes so delectably assertive when he’s being teased.

The Beast pulls on some of Enoch’s ribbons hard enough to tear, and Enoch hisses in thrilled agony. “Do it.”

He grins, feeling like he may never stop grinning, and finds a hole between the Beast’s long, slender legs. There are so many to choose from, but they’re trying something different, this time. He caresses the hole slowly, humming a little at another impatient tug, and runs his tip around the inside rim before pushing in, slow and deep.

The Beast gasps. “Oh…”

It’s cold and strange inside him, not so much soft as alive and rippling. That’s exquisite, knowing that his Beast is excited, even if he can’t see it from the outside just yet. His Beast wants him, manages to suck him in further, bathing him in a cold, slick fluid deep inside.

Oh, he just loves it when his Beast is wet for him.

He draws the tendril back out, smiling as the frustrated keen turns into a loud, decadent moan as he promptly shoves a dozen ribbons in alongside his first experimental tendril. All in the same hole.

The Beast rolls his hips and whimpers as the tendrils all branch off from their shared entry point, following the dizzying channels riddling the Beast’s body and pulsing so warm inside him.

“Enoch!” he chokes.

Enoch pushes against him, driving them all deeper and back, deeper and back. After a little while, he sets a rhythm that lets them take turns in the Beast’s body, sliding back and forth, so the Beast is always stuffed full and always about to get even more. He knows what his sweetheart likes.

The Beast’s hunger throbs in the air around them. He’s starving, insatiable, and he pushes himself back onto every thrust he can meet, pulling Enoch in and in, body split open for him. Enoch oozes satisfaction all over his Beast, gasping to feel himself so forcefully sucked down and consumed. Enoch grunts as the Beast pulses around him, some channels fluttering, others clenching and squeezing his tendrils like he won’t let them go.

Enoch wants more. He wants it all. He pushes half a dozen more in without warning, relishing the cry of startled ecstasy, and he sets them moving in three shifts, working his Beast mercilessly.

“Is this what you wanted, my love?” he growls, dipping his head down instead of trying to keep his composure.

“Yes,” the Beast gasps, hips canting to take him, legs spreading for his pleasure. “Yes, Enoch, yes, yes–”

“This was –- oh, darling –- a fantastic idea,” Enoch groans. “Such an imagination…”

The Beast snarls half-heartedly and releases his grip on Enoch’s ribbons enough to cup his head with his hands. Those hands shake, so he grabs the fabric of Enoch’s face and makes fists.

“I want more of them,” he pants. “Pick another hole. Just like this, all over again.”

Enoch can’t wait to oblige. He pushes a full twenty tendrils into a nearby hole and groans along with his lover’s frenzied screech. He uses all of them together for a few maddening moments, feeling his Beast move with the overwhelming pressure and pleasure of fullness, before he lets the ribbons settle into the entirely pleasant business of working his lover hard.

The Beast’s eyes might as well be on fire. He’s so excited, Enoch can see the blue.

“You’re beautiful,” Enoch croons.

The Beast claws at him. He seizes one of Enoch’s fore-tentacles, the ones he uses to gesture, and drags it to his chest in a trembling hand.

He puts it at a hole, holding it there even as he rocks with the ribbons plunging inside him, taking him. The Beast uses his fingertips to gently push the tentacle tip just within the lip of the hole.

“In and to the left,” he orders. “Don’t stop the others.”

Enoch obeys him, but he couldn’t stop the others if he wanted to. The rest of him is aching for a turn, and the second the Beast lets him have another hole…

“Further left. Third tunnel. I said third. Down. Keep -– oh, oh, that’s right, that–” Enoch keeps him distracted for a few seconds, pushing still more ribbons into his two stuffed holes. The Beast arches and opens himself and never begs, except with the lines of his body.

“F-focus,” he chokes at last, clutching the tentacle in his chest desperately. “Down. Right. Now up -- I know, I know, trust me, up–”

“I want to get lost in you,” Enoch murmurs.

The Beast’s free hand unfists and trembles on his cheek. “Next time.”

Enoch laughs, dripping joy, aching with hunger.

“Left again,” the Beast says. “Now back, back. Slight right.”

Enoch’s tendril bumps something solid and he almost stops from surprise. This isn’t their first assignation, but in all this time he’s never found something inside his Beast that wasn’t ever more empty, sensitive corridors eager to be filled.

It’s a wet thing, and cold, and it pulses much more sharply than the Beast’s needy tunnels. The Beast’s hand strokes his tentacle with a tenderness he’d surely imagine the Beast to be incapable of, if he knew his lover less well; and with this stroke, he realizes exactly what this thing is.

“Wrap yourself around it,” the Beast orders, voice breathless. “And squeeze it.”

“My love,” Enoch breathes, awed, reverent, wishing he had a less decorative mouth. This is definitely a moment that deserves kissing.

“Squeeze it.”

Enoch wraps around it and squeezes it. His Beast shudders all around him, letting out a weak, ruined little creak, and he makes a long, airless cry of a sound as Enoch pumps the chambers of his heart in rhythm with the tentacles working inside him.

“You’re a romantic,” Enoch purrs. “Such a romantic. And such an imagination.”

It takes the Beast quite a few seconds to respond. Enoch is very flattered.

“Don’t embarrass me,” the Beast replies. Enoch nuzzles him, uncaring of the sharpness of the antlers, uncaring of the bitterness of the cold. He’s wet with his Beast’s wetness, raw with his Beast’s hunger, and Enoch is so desperate to please him he thinks he may go insane.

“I adore you,“ Enoch whispers.

The Beast chuckles and he can feel it everywhere. “All of me, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Hm. And I bet you’d–” He hisses as Enoch starts flexing all the tentacles as they sink home. “–like to have all of me. Take all of me. Is that right?”

“Please,” Enoch agrees. It’s not aloof. He’s never been less aloof in his entire existence. “Please. I need–”

“So have,” the Beast purrs.

Enoch rumbles a thank-you sound that shakes the floor, and shoves every tentacle he feels he can spare into a few particularly good holes. His Beast wails with new sensation and Enoch grunts as he pumps himself into and out of his beloved’s body, feeling his hunger snap like broken ice, his joy flayed to shrieking nerves.

They’re rough and lewd and obscene. The Beast clings to him and makes sounds that make parts of Enoch, way down in the depths of the soil, scream electric and try to rise up out of the earth to get just a taste of the exquisite, lustful thing he’s got maddened with pleasure and helpless in his hayloft. Enoch squeezes the Beast’s heart like a vise, pumping it madly and feeling its vibrations resonate throughout the body pressing so tight and cold around him.

He could rip it out. That knowledge is so overwhelming that he wants to burst into flames over it, and he almost does.

But he’s too busy, too wonderfully busy, and now the Beast is whimpering, desperate, and somewhere nearby the flame in his lantern is actually screaming.

“Please,” Enoch says, “let me make you -- let me–”

“Yes,” the Beast snarls. “Yes, finally, do it, I want you to–”

Enoch twists the heart and the Beast shrieks, eyes flaring like a supernova, body writhing in unspeakable bliss. His hands squeeze Enoch’s tendrils so hard he tears a few of them right off of him, and it drives him over his own edge, consumed and swallowed and ripped apart by his beautiful monster.

The total darkness of ecstasy descends. He’s still not used to it. It’s still perfect.

They lay there, as dim light slowly fades back into the world. They’re each half dead, one corpse shared between them, and Enoch manages to wedge himself onto the hayloft and collapse. One by one and two by two, he slowly drags his tendrils back, listening to his lover’s soft sighs and the occasional lewd, pleased, exhausted little moan this process elicits. He could work his Beast back up into a frenzy again, he bets, just doing this.

That’s an experiment worth trying. But later.

The Beast strokes the tentacle in his chest and keeps it right where it is. Enoch doesn’t dare to move it. He pets the wet, sticky heart and hopes that suffices for the kisses with which he wants to batter his lover’s body.

“I’m certainly not complaining, but it is terribly romantic,” Enoch says in the dimness. “Even you have to admit that much, Beast.”

The Beast reaches out with a hand trailing some tangled, disembodied ribbons around the wrist and flicks him in the head. His head makes a dull, balloon-like thump.

He makes a fair point, Enoch thinks. He says no more, but wraps every arm he can around his beloved and commences to mindlessly petting him.

The Beast pets him back with his one free hand, and quietly starts to hum.


End file.
